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He sat forward again, elbows on his knees. "So the Cadogan folks have concluded that Porter's death is connected to your attack?"
"I think they're willing to consider it a possibility."
After nodding thoughtfully, Grandpa rose and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, there was a manila folder in his hand. He sat down again and opened it, then flipped through some documents. "Twenty-seven-year-old white female. College educated. Brunette. Blue eyes. Slim build. She was attacked just after dusk, walking her dog through Grant Park. Her blood was drained, and she was left for dead." His pale blue eyes, which matched mine in color, watched me intently. "There are undeniable similarities."
I nodded, not thrilled that Grandpa agreed with Ethan's conclusion. But what was worse, the first vampire probably had meant to kill me. Which meant I was supposed to be his second victim and would have been - death by exsanguination in the middle of the quad - had Ethan not come along.
I really did owe Ethan for saving my life.
And I really didn't want to owe Ethan anything.
My grandfather reached out and patted my knee with a large callused hand. "I'd really like to know what you're thinking right now."
I frowned and picked a fingernail against the nubby fabric of the couch. "I'm alive. And I really do have Ethan Sullivan to thank for it, which is . . . disturbing." I looked up at my grandfather. "Someone was gunning for me. Because I look like Jennifer Porter? If so, why send the brick through my window? This guy wanted me dead, maybe for himself, maybe on someone else's behalf. And he's still out there." I shook my head. "Vampires coming out of the closet was bad enough. The city is not going to be prepared for this."
Grandpa patted my hand again, then rose from his chair and grabbed a jacket that lay across its arm. "Merit, let's go for a drive."
My grandfather, the man who cared for me for much of my childhood, announced to the family four years ago, following the death of my grandmother, that he was taking partial retirement. He told my sneering father that he was off the streets and would instead man a desk in the CPD's Detective Division, helping the active detectives with unsolved homicides.
But as we drove south in his gigantic Oldsmobile - think red velveteen upholstery - he confessed that he hadn't exactly told us the truth about his role with the CPD. He was still working for the city of Chicago, but in a wholly different capacity.
As it turned out, when vampires came out of the closet those eight months ago, my grandfather wasn't the least bit surprised.
"Chicago has had vamps for over a century," he said, hands at ten and two as he drove through the city's dark streets. "Navarre's been here since before the fire. Of course, the administration hasn't been in the know that long, only a few decades. But still, the Daleys knew about you. Tate knows about you. There aren't many in the upper echelon who don't." Eyes on the road, he leaned slightly sideways. "By the way, Mrs. O'Leary's cow had nothing to do with it."
"All that time and no one thought to tell the city that vampires were living among them? All that time, and no leaks? In Chicago? That's kind of impressive, actually."
My grandfather chuckled. "If you think that's impressive, you'll love this. Vamps aren't even the tip of the supernatural iceberg. Shape-shifters. Demons. Nymphs. Fairies. Trolls. The Windy City has pretty much every entry in the sup phone book. And that's where I come in."
I glanced over at him, brows raised. "What do you mean, that's where you come in?"
My grandfather started to speak, but stopped himself. "Let me start at the beginning?"
I nodded.
"All these supernatural contingents - they have disputes, too. Sniping between the Houses, fairy defections, boundary disputes among the River nymphs."
"Like, the Chicago River?"
My grandfather turned the car onto a quiet residential street. "How do you think they get the river green for St. Pat's?"
"I'd assumed dye."
He huffed out a sardonic sound. "If it were only that easy. Long story short, the nymphs control the branches and channels. You have River work to do, you call them first." He held up a hand. "So you see, this isn't just domestic disputes and petty theft. These are serious issues - issues the majority of the boys in blue don't have the training, the experience, to deal with. Well, Mayor Tate wanted a way to funnel these issues down to a central location, a single office. Folks who could handle the disputes, take care of things before they could affect the rest of the city. So four years ago, he created the Ombudsman's office."
I nodded, remembering Ethan's reference. "Ethan mentioned that, said something about having Mallory talk to the Ombud. They think she has magic. That she's a witch or something."
Grandpa made a sound of interest. "You don't say. Catcher will be interested to hear that."
"Catcher?" I asked. "Is he the Ombudsman?"
My grandfather chuckled. "No, baby girl. I am."
I froze, turned my head to stare at him. "What?"
"The Mayor likes to call me a 'liaison' between the regulars and the sups. Personally, I think 'liaison' is a bullshit bureaucrat word. But the Mayor asked me to serve, and I said yes. I'll admit it - I never came across any vamps or shifters when I walked the beat, and I was curious as all get out to meet these folks. I love this city, Merit, and don't mind making sure everybody gets a fair shake."
I shook my head. "I don't doubt that, but I don't know what to say about the rest of it. You were retired, Grandpa. You told us - you told me - that you were retired."
"I tried retirement," he said. "I even tried a stint in the evidence locker, a desk job. But I was a cop for thirty years. I couldn't do it. Wasn't ready to give it up. Cops have lots of skills, Merit. We mediate. We problem solve. Investigate." He shrugged. "I just do it for some slightly more complicated folks now. I started at a desk in City Hall, and now I have my own staff."
He explained that he'd hired four people. The first was Marjorie, his secretary, a fifty- year-old woman who'd become battle-hardened by twenty-five years of staffing phones in one of the city's more crime-ridden police bureaus. The second was Jeff Christopher, a twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy and, as it happened, a shape-shifter of as-of- yet-unidentified shape. The third was Catcher Bell. Catcher was twenty-nine and, my grandfather said, gruff. Warned my grandfather: "He's pretty, but he's wily. Give him a wide berth."
"That's only three," I pointed out when my grandfather paused.
